I greet it every morning: Sin Grasa on the label
of my French Vanilla coffee creamer. It was there
in sleep, as well: Awareness without grasa, without
the fat of consciousness. It is brighter and sheerer
than any Virgilian dawn, and needs only to be savored.
It is the muse that sings within me, that through me
tells the story.
WEEDS ALONG THE WAY
As a boy, you would grieve for things:
The stark, solitary tree; a rotting boat-dock in
some mournful cove; and homeless dogs and kittens
(which would propel you into near-catatonia).
Now, everything is as it is. You celebrate the single,
yellow thistle peaking through searing concrete.
You give food to the destitute, whether kitty or human.
Or sometimes you don’t. Or can’t. There are only
apparent choices to be made. So go ahead.
Relish them...with joyful apparentness.